Cliche Away, or, Oh God, Yes
by felinefemme
Summary: I'm attempting to tackle as many Sherlock fanfic clichés as possible within the confines of Let's Write Sherlock's Challenge #4.


Title: "Cliché Away, or, Oh God, Yes"

Author: FelineFemme

Summary: I'm attempting to tackle as many Sherlock fanfic clichés as possible within the confines of Let's Write Sherlock's Challenge #4. The problem is that most of them have to do with explicit slash, and I'm trying to keep this below an R rating 0_o;; At least I won't have to attempt any serious case file stuff – oh, crap, isn't that another cliché? Oh well, this is for kicks and giggles, I'm too lazy to try writing mystery or anything close to canon here.  
Rating: T

Pairing: Johnlock  
Genre: Humor, okay, it's stupid crack. Why argue semantics.  
Length: 1895 words  
Warnings: None  
Links: (if you post your fic in multiple places, feel free to add multiple links)

Disclaimer: Sherlock Holmes doesn't belong to me, thank goodness, I'm just borrowing BBC1's version. And please forgive me for abusing these clichés and making up new ones as I go along.

It happens like this:

Fueled by the leftover adrenaline from catching a criminal and far too many snide remarks to the police, Sherlock and John are laughing, gasping against the stairway, as they have since "A Study in Pink". And then, John turns to Sherlock, and his friend is kissing him. Sherlock pulls back, suddenly shy. "I, I've never done this before," he says softly. "It's fine," John says, "it's all fine." And it turns into an all-out war on the wallpaper, as John ends up shagging his friend into the wall, hard and fast.

Sherlock is all sharp angles and lean muscle, and John nearly cut himself on those sharp cheekbones. John, however, is made of compact muscles, his legs strong enough to support them both, defying any lingering effects of the psychosomatic pain that had him limping to 221B in the first place. The shorter man makes short work of the consulting detective, taking him to pieces physically and emotionally.

He's not sure how well he did with Sherlock's mind, until the taller man moans. "That good, hm?" John murmurs against the thin pale chest.

Sherlock blushes, not a virgin anymore, but still new to this sex business. "Can we do that again?" he says, as if he's discovered a new type of experiment. Perhaps he has.

"Ready when you are," John shoots back, and they run upstairs, shedding what's left of their clothes, getting distracted by every firm surface they could have sex against (chair, table, wall) before actually getting into Sherlock's bedroom.

Of course, there was a great deal of awkwardness when they woke up, and they promised not to bring it up again. That is, until the next bout of adrenaline-fueled sex happened.

No, it happens like this:

It's a calm, crime-less day, which means that Sherlock Holmes is bored. Bored, bored, bored. So John isn't surprised to find his friend draped over the couch like a Victorian heroine, all long limbs and pale skins, in his blue robe, playing a tune as moody as himself. He makes himself a fifteenth cup of tea, since there's nothing else to do, really, other than watch crap telly.

"We should have sex," Sherlock says out of nowhere, stopping the music.

John spits out his tea. "What the hell?" he says, mopping his face and the counter.

"You need sex, you haven't had a girlfriend in ages, I don't want you to leave, so I could be your lover, ergo, we should have sex." He looked at his friend with a straight face, in spite of the content of his speech.

John shook his head. "You sound like you're making a sane deduction, but you're talking crazy, you know."

Sherlock leaps off the couch, crossing the room and is in John's face faster than the blonde man was comfortable with. "What, don't you want to have sex?"

The look on John's face clearly says, What fresh hell did he crawl from? Aloud, he says, "Yes, but not with you. Straight, remember?"

"Ah, straight is boring!" Sherlock throws up his hands. "It's for science, John!" And, as he did in "The Blind Banker", he grabbed John's face, but this time, kissed him. It wasn't a sloppy one, either, it was full of experience, pleasure, and –

"Oh, dear God," John groaned, as they both got harder than he could've imagined, and he could imagine quite a bit. "You've done this before, haven't you? All that 'not my area' was a just a smokescreen, wasn't it?"

"I have the body of a god and a voice like chocolate, what do you think?" the consulting detective lifted a haughty chin. "So, shall we take this experiment to the bedroom, or rut in the kitchen like everyone else?"

"Bedroom," John says quickly, "I don't trust that the kitchen is completely safe."

Sherlock smiles a quick smile, and they perform their experiment, sans clothes, in his room. And John doesn't leave, but neither do they have sex again, preferring to shelve this as one of Sherlock's unsuccessful experiments.

Oh please, it happens like this:

They are attending Mycroft and Greg's wedding. Or is it Molly and Lestrade's wedding? Perhaps it's Irene and Molly's wedding. Well, it's a wedding with a pair of their friends, and John and Sherlock are feeling quite romantic. Or so it seems, since they're pretending to be together for the sake of John's family. Or is it Sherlock's? It's most likely Sherlock's.

In any case, it's a lovely day for a white wedding, in spite of the fact that Sherlock is still being Sherlock, deducing the hell out of the guests, and John doing his damndest to shut him up. The blonde man finds himself unsubtly clapping his hand over the taller man's mouth, because there's no pillow to smother the idiot with. Unfortunately, Sherlock escapes and makes one more deduction guaranteed to throw them out. Neither of them has any money for a cab, so they walk to the palace masquerading as Sherlock's parents' place, since it was close enough to the reception. John doesn't mind, since they had quite a bit to eat, yes, even Sherlock.

"Come to think of it, if it's such a huge place, why are we stuck in the same room?" John asks as Sherlock breaks into his old bedroom.

"Because you're my friend, and they have this juvenile idea that as my friend, it should be something like a sleepover," Sherlock says in a bored tone.

"And since when have you listened to anyone?" John throws his hands up. "And why is there just one bed?"

Sherlock looks at him like he's stupid. "Because I only needed one bed growing up," he said, "even if it had to be replaced when I was twelve. I believe I was about your height then."

"Shut up," John muttered, "I can kip on the floor, just give me extra blankets."

"Don't be dull," his friend rolled his eyes, "you're straight, I don't care, there's enough room on the bed for us both."

The shorter man sighed, feeling his heterosexuality taking a beating once again, thanks to Sherlock. "Right," he harrumphed, shucking his clothes efficiently, thanks to his Army time.

Sherlock's already under the duvet, and it's all fine, until they wake up and John realizes that his flatmate sleeps naked. And John beats the crap out of his idiot friend, in spite of the fact that A) he's the guest in Sherlock's place, B) they've both got knobs the size of small dogs, and C) Sherlock is making embarrassing noises like he enjoys the damn thing. Thanks to that last item, they are grilled at the dining table, and John Watson, who has survived the loss of his Afghanistan post, faced a number of criminals at gunpoint, and more than a few of Sherlock's experiments, wants to get the hell out of that fancy home. It really, really doesn't help that Sherlock, now wrapped up in a bedsheet, squeezes his thigh in what's meant to be a reassuring manner.

For those who prefer their crack straight up, it goes like this:

After a night of graphic, violent sex that started with a dinner cut short at Angelo's, culminating in a trip to a gay bar, vampire!Sherlock's magical cock made werewolf!John pregnant. Well, that, and there were tentacles involved, definitely some feet or some other fetish filled, something about drugs, no, wait, they were flying at one point, right? Er, in any case, it was obviously sex of such a mind-blowing and unbelievable nature that even the narrator can't adequately describe it, nor would he want to. Not to belabor the point, but they were totally bonded for life, now that they did the nasty not once, not twice, but, well, a LOT of times. Okay, and they did it more than just that one night, but that first night was a-friggen-mazing. Unfortunately, they couldn't figure out the gender of their lovespawn until it was actually born, but they declared themselves delighted with whatever would come out.

It turned out that the child was a lovely boy, with Sherlock's looks and John's sweet nature – and a tendency to turn into a vampire at the full moon. And Moriarty kidnapped Hamish, for that was the were!vampire's name, when he was a precocious five-year-old. And tried his best to return him, but ended up with several bullets in his head for his troubles. "Daddy, he tasted bad," Hamish made a face as he stood over the very human and now very dead consulting criminal.

"He really shouldn't have taken you during your vampire time," Sherlock murmured, holding out a water bottle filled with blood. "You're becoming a cute little BAMF like your dad." That earned him a grin from son and husband, and he knew he'd be getting some good lovin' at home.

Of course, they all live happily ever after, although from time to time, they do get shot at, hungry for blood, mindlessly furry, and wall-shooting insane, in between cases, school, and other bits of silliness.

Actually, it happens like this:

A year and a half ago, John Watson was talking to someone who was supposed to be dead, although he thought he'd be talking to Mycroft. "I'm not gay," he says, now used to his voice not echoing, even though he's half-expecting it to in this abandoned power plant.

The woman draped all in black, as if a parody of her position, smiles with her red, red lips. "Well, I am," she says, and her lips turn up when his eyes widen. "Look at us both."

His mouth hangs, but changes it to a scoffing laugh rather than just gawping at her. What the hell does she think she – what the hell is she thinking? Then they hear the sound of an over-the-top recorded orgasm, and John feels a number of things: surprise, guilt, relief, anger, and sadness. He turns to find his friend, who sounds like he's already fleeing, but Irene Adler stops him.

"I don't think so, do you?" she says, too far away to physically stop him, even as her hand is outstretched to do so.

John knows he could ignore her, could catch up with Sherlock, but what would he say? And in the wake of everything else happening, he almost forgets the finer details of this particular conversation.

Almost, until he's sitting at a nice restaurant, and Sherlock Holmes comes back from the dead, even though he was expecting the older brother for dinner. John looks up to see the tall man look as pale, stylish, and thinner than usual, but for once, he looks nervous. Sherlock Holmes, besting Moriarty and death, nervous. Will wonders never cease, John thinks.

Sherlock blinks, and a shadow of his former arrogance reasserts itself on his features. "John," he says, after clearing his throat.

A lesser man would lose his drink in a glorious spittake or beat the other man up. A weaker man would yell or faint. John Watson merely nods, indicating the other man to sit down, and he does. "She said we were a couple," the blonde man says under his moustache. "She neglected to continue to say that we were a couple of idiots."

The relief on the thinner man's face is more eloquent than John would have thought. Sherlock smiles, taking the seat opposite. "Obviously."


End file.
